Page 9 of Crimson Moon Falling

Next, I checked the small table between the armchairs stacked with books. Unlike the meticulously organized shelves, these volumes were clearly in active use. Bookmarks protruded, and handwritten notes had been tucked between covers.

I carefully examined the stack. Most were about ecology and folklore, but one slim, handwritten journal caught my eye. The inside title read Analysis of NW States Facility Sites, but there was no signature.

Something niggled at my brain. When I opened the first page, I took in the writing, but didn’t process the words.

I hadn’t seen that cramped handwriting in years. Not since the last birthday card I received from my father. My vision blurred, then settled on the yellowed, aged note tucked into the pages. I pulled it out and saw the handwriting was the same.

RMNP site going active. Yours might be next. Including my journal for reference. Be well. E.B.

The journal trembled in my shaking hands before the implant pulsed to life, regulating my pounding heart. Gunnar appeared in the bedroom doorway.

“Nothing in there except clothes and some fishing gear. Who keeps fishing gear in their bedroom?”

I slid the journal into my coat pocket and gathered the entire stack of books from the end table, cradling them in my arms. “I’m taking these. There might be more notes and clues. We’ll have to come back and search the shelves.” I eyed the two-story library that would’ve made Belle from Beauty and the Beast ecstatic.

We went through the kitchen last. His garbage can was empty, but his pantry held a decent supply of dry staples. Zaria cleared out his fridge, then stood and pointed to the stack of books I planned to take with me.

“Those are private journals and research.”

“They could also be evidence in a missing persons case,” I countered.

“Take them, then, but be careful. Knowledge can have jagged teeth.”

Zaria went around, pulling the window shades closed as I stared at the tree growing through the cabin's center. In the shifting light, the grooves in its bark seemed to rearrange, forming patterns that hovered at the edge of comprehension. The coldness inside me responded, reaching out like frost tendrils toward the ancient wood.

“I’m starving. Let’s find lunch,” Gunnar grumbled, startling me out of my stupor.

Freda and Bennion turned when we walked out of Viggo’s cabin a few minutes later. Freda unclenched her fists when she saw me.

As we drove back to the bungalow, I patted my father’s journal in my pocket, reassuring myself it was still there. Something in those pages might shed light on both Dad’s and Viggo’s disappearances, even though they occurred years apart.

Zaria’s warnings played in my head, but for the first time, I had something concrete to follow. The coldness inside me seemed to recede slightly, making room for something I hadn’t felt in years.

Cautious hope.

Chapter 4

Riley

The dark concrete hallway closed in around me. I stood, lost and shivering, as a brutally cold wind swirled through the corridor. Slowly, I reached up to feel the rough stubble on my shaved head. My other hand found the red, angry brand burned into my collarbone. I looked around, recognizing the Roswell facility.

My father’s voice called me, echoing through the halls, but I was too ashamed to answer. I didn’t want him to see me like this. I started walking on trembling legs, then ran and stumbled as heavy footsteps sounded behind me.

A frigid blast hit my system, and I sat up, gasping and shivering in sweat-soaked sheets. It was early morning, and I didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep.

Morning light filtered through the pines outside the bungalow when I walked out to the kitchen. I’d spent the last hour reading through my father’s journal, and it was tucked in my coat pocket.

We ate a quick breakfast, then headed outside to go to the lake where Viggo’s truck was still parked.

Gunnar grunted next to me. “Company.” His hand dropped to his sidearm, and Freda and Bennion stepped in front of me as three black SUVs with tinted windows and gold government decals rolled into view.

The vehicles formed a half-circle around ours, trapping us. “They look like FBCI agents,” Freda murmured. Her stance shifted subtly, shoulders squared, body angled to shield me. Bennion’s energy went hot.

The doors of the lead SUV opened, and two agents stepped out. They wore crisp suits, earpieces, and blank expressions. One was a woman with copper-red hair pulled into a severe bun. The other was a shorter man whose broad shoulders strained against his jacket.

“Investigator Blackthorne,” the woman called, her voice carrying across the clearing. “I’m Agent Mercer with the Federal Bureau of Cognizant Investigations. This is Agent Foster. We need you to come with us.”

Freda stepped forward. “On whose authority?”